No End in Sight
by yankeebornandbred
Summary: Rewrite of A Fork in the Road. Twice, Harry discovered he wasn't who he thought he was. The second time was more explosively surprising. Who even knew angels and demons existed, let alone [SPOILERS]? Angel!Harry. Follows nearly all of the HP series and set during S7 of Supernatural. Rated T for violence/gore later in the story.
1. Prologue

**Welcome to new readers and to old! This is the rewrite of A Fork in the Road, and here's hoping it's an improvement.**

 **No End in Sight is split as follows: Prologue, Book I, Book II, Book III, Epilogue. Quite the journey, as you can see. Secondary characters include Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Adam Milligan, Gabriel, Lucifer, and some OCs that I won't make too intrusive. Their entrances will be staggered throughout and a few of them will only show up after several chapters.**

 **This is not a family** **fic. Harry is not biologically related to the Winchesters in any way.**

 **Thanks to SomniumAstrum and Kurama's Foxy Rose for being awesome betas! I appreciate your help very much. It's mostly due to your suggestions and constructive criticism that I decided to do this, and I'm glad I did.**

 **Disclaimer: The title is obviously taken from that of an album by Foreigner. Nothing belongs to me except for parts of the plots and my own little twists. Things you recognize are from the books or the TV show.**

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

A few months before the unfortunate incidents surrounding Nicholas Flamel's magical stone, Harry Potter realized that Neville Longbottom was not actually a huge asshole. According to a restricted book by one Alexander Lansbury, the asshole was an evil creature called a demon, formerly believed to be nonexistent, and Neville was its unfortunate victim.

Neville had been acting strange all year. A fall of over twenty feet in height failed to affect him beyond causing a twisted wrist and exceptional grumpiness. He never seasoned his food, no matter how bland it was, he sassed Professor Snape, and to Ron's hypocritical outrage he ridiculed Hermione's love for books.

He could have been an ass, plain and simple, except that Harry had met him on the Hogwarts Express and thought him a goodnatured and likable boy, if a bit shy. It made no sense for him to turn malicious and rebellious less than a day later.

To be honest, Harry hadn't even noticed at the time.

Ron had been so certain that he would be sorted into Gryffindor ("There's no doubt of it, Harry... you're _Harry Potter._ ") that it was especially jarring when the hat yelled, "Slytherin!" after barely a moment of deliberation. In the weeks that followed, Harry was exposed to and thoroughly confused by a maelstrom of pureblood customs, all under the protective wing of a third year named Margaret Lestrange.

"Slytherin is best known for wit and cunning," Margaret told him. Her blue eyes sparkled in her thin face, belying the words. "I like to think of it more as common sense. Another house would jump straight into trouble without thinking of the consequences."

"You're talking about Gryffindor again, aren't you?" said Harry, who had become savvy to that particular habit of hers.

"Did I say that?" asked Margaret. But her lips twitched.

Rumors flying around Hogwarts claimed that Slytherin was an evil cult and that its dormitory was a slimy hellhole run by Satan's own minions. It was true that the common room was dim, and it wouldn't have been far from correct to say that the students were more secluded than the rest of the school's population, but otherwise the speculations had no basis in fact.

Harry liked the dungeons. Deep leather couches and stately cabinets furnished the common room, whose cavernous ceiling extended below the lake. His own bedroom was comfortable and compact. Half of it was his and the other half belonged to a boy whose name Harry awkwardly misheard upon introduction, although he believed it began with an F – was it Frederick? Floyd? Everyone called him by his surname, which was Rosier, so he never quite found out.

This latter was several inches shorter than him despite being more than three years older. He was a curious individual; his features were nondescript, his eyelids looked constantly as if they were going to slip shut, and he put forth minimal effort towards his schoolwork. Somehow he always received good marks anyway.

He and Harry had a symbiotic relationship of sorts. Rosier, a member of a higher-class family in the tightly knit pureblood community, helped to smooth Harry's integration into Slytherin simply by associating with him, and Harry... well, Harry wasn't sure what he did for Rosier, but they shared a vague dislike for Quidditch. Perhaps it was this that prompted them to seek out each other's company.

All things considered, the only thorn in Harry's side was Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy was a no-good, narcissistic, selfish hellion, or so Harry told his roommate one night after classes and dinner.

"Are you sure you're not just saying that because he's better than you at Transfiguration?" Rosier asked mildly when his ranting had died down.

"He isn't better than me," said Harry, offended. Malfoy was not, he amended, the only thorn. The other was his deplorable lack of any kind of magical skill.

Harry wasn't lucky enough to slide through his studies like Rosier. He struggled with Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Potions, the class he might have had a chance at shining in, was unfortunately taught by a man who had hated his father and did not particularly like him. His grades fluctuated, ranging between a "Dreadful" if Snape was in a passably good mood and an "Exceeds Expectations" if he was feeling snide. Harry didn't know which was worse.

Harry's housemates thought him bizarre to pursue his friendship with two Gryffindors – a Weasley and a Muggle-born no less. Gryffindors hated Slytherins as a rule, and Slytherins despised Gryffindors. It was a feud to rival that of the Montagues and Capulets. Harry might have become something of a social pariah if not for Margaret and Rosier. As it was, he was labeled as "strange."

Malfoy delighted in twisting the word so that it came out like the worst insult ever invented. In a feat of great daring, Harry flipped him off, but then discovered that nobody knew what it meant. Margaret inquired, however, and eventually word reached Malfoy. He wasn't pleased. It showed.

On one occasion, Harry was en route to History of Magic with Ron and Hermione when Malfoy trotted past. Harry couldn't remember what he had said, but it had been silly and juvenile, and he'd ignored him. Ron, on the other hand, clenched his fists and would have started a scuffle if Harry hadn't pulled him back. It was because of this heedlessness that Harry didn't bring him and Hermione into the demon fiasco.

"Demons are allegedly cursed souls from hell," wrote Alexander Lansbury. "Although encounters with these creatures have rarely been documented and still more rarely been verified, Christian legend maintains that substances such as holy water or salt repel them and that they can be banished by religious exorcisms."

"With a vast pool of mythology and tradition to sift through from around the world, fact is difficult to isolate from fiction. Some sources say that demons have black eyes, others that they have an incorporeal form similar to smoke. However, two points are certain: demons are extraordinarily powerful, and they are by no means benevolent. They are usually portrayed as having supernatural powers, such as telekinesis or teleportation, and can possess animals and humans alike."

"However," quoth Lansbury, "lack of evidence for one conjecture, which in this case is the existence of demons, does not qualify as proof for the opposite surmise, their nonexistence. To think in absolutes would be erroneous. One must prepare for the worst, and therefore I give you, my dear reader, the following exorcism, to be used upon evil spirits if necessary."

The exorcism was wordy and written in Latin. Harry disliked Latin, primarily because he had never learned it, but he did his best to memorize the words, feeling rather as if he had a heroic calling to save some poor damsel in distress. The parallel brought to mind visions of Neville clad in heavily embroidered medieval gowns. He forgot them as quickly as he could.

His mental was-Neville-a-demon chart had big green checkmarks beside every determining factor listed in Lansbury's _Supernatural Creatures: Fictitious and Factual, Volume I_. In short: he was screwed.

After a good three months of intense preparation and memory work, however, Harry considered himself ready for his first demon hunt. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. He did think he was about as ready as he ever would be. His pockets were a veritable promised land of salt and holy water, the exorcism was firmly engrained in his head, and he could pass Neville without shuddering (visibly).

It was easier said than done.

 _Demons are definitely telekinetic_ , Harry felt like informing Lansbury pettishly. His head slammed against the wall as if on cue, and Neville's lips curled in a grin as the demon stalked nearer. Thinking himself clever, Harry had waited until everyone was at the Quidditch pitch for the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game before he acted. It had not been clever.

"Wonderful," said Neville, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Good job, Harry Potter, absolutely capital. I'm impressed."

"Thanks," Harry gasped, wiping away the stream of blood pouring from his nose.

The demon shook his head pityingly. The salt line was almost broken, the light spring breeze blowing it away in wisps. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you? You have no idea what you are, why I'm here. You're a little – I mean no offense, truly – but you're a little pathetic."

"Exorcizamus te!" Harry yelled in return, incensed. "Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et... _Oof_!"

The salt line had broken. Harry went flying into the wall for the second time in five minutes and Neville smoothly strode to his side, eyes inky black once more.

"Et... et secta diabolica," Harry mumbled doggedly, _"_ ergo draco mal-mal... mal-"

Neville shook his head again but with even more pity, if that was possible.

"As I said, pathetic. Oh, well, I can see when I'm not wanted. So long, old boy."

He threw his head back and smoke exploded out of his mouth, gathering in a black cloud near the ceiling. More and more surged to join with it until finally Neville's body slackened and collapsed. The cloud twisted into a little funnel of evil, swirled to the window, and was gone.

Harry stared at the spot where it had disappeared for several long moments. He gulped.

"Bloody hell," he said aloud.

* * *

 **Feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks!**


	2. HbD Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I obviously own both Harry Potter and Supernatural. I mean, it's not like this is fan fiction or anything, right?**

 **Thanks especially to SomniumAstrum and Kurama's Foxy Rose for their beta work. I couldn't and wouldn't have done this without them.**

 **A second round of appreciative applause for my reviewers: Samhain Otsutsuki, mattcun, aaaaa, SomniumAstrum (now, what could _you_ be doing there?), Sianna Scale, shadewatcher, moon so bright, and Sailor Pandabear. I'm grateful for the time you spent to tell me what you thought!**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Hunter by Definition

Chapter I

* * *

Harry knew two things.

First and most importantly, he had to close the window. Insufficient protection as it seemed, he didn't want the nameless demon to hitch a ride on him while his back was turned.

Second, Neville needed medical care.

Actually, first he sat down so he wouldn't face-plant. He felt rather as he had during the bout of accidental magic that landed him on the school roof. The wind had gathered him up and deposited him on the rough tiles and, shaking like a leaf, he had skittered away from the edge. "You're _eeevil,"_ Dudley had taunted him afterwards in the (not) safety of Privet Drive. " _Eeevil_ freak! Hope you eat worms and die!

These delicate sentiments reverberated within him when he thought about the demon's words. Pathetic? No idea what he was doing? Harry boiled. The _ignominy_.

"Ergo draco maledicte," he recited, viciously slapping his hands against his knee. They tingled with excess adrenaline. "Ut ecclesiam tuam secura, tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos! Bloody _hell_ , why couldn't I remember it before?"

Throughout all his careful planning, he had never expected to betrayed by his own nerves.

"Maledicte," he sneered again, and told Neville's inert form, "I could kick myself."

Neville made an unhappy moaning noise and Harry remembered the two things.

"I'll get you to Pomfrey, shall I?" The glass trembled as he slammed the window shut. He tugged the fastenings a few times to make sure they were tight. "She'll know what to do. A potion or something to wake you up."

Harry bent and pulled Neville upright. With a juicy squish, Neville's cracked wrist bone popped out of the skin, releasing a fresh torrent of blood. Harry's stomach curdled.

"Oh, God."

The toast and two boiled eggs that had been his breakfast clawed their way up his throat, but he fought them down and caught Neville up in an awkward hug. The wrist flopped with each step, but whether from shock or unconsciousness or small mercies, Neville didn't appear to feel anything yet. He moaned again, this time less feebly, and one eye opened.

"Wh're 'm I?" he mumbled. His eyelid slipped shut and dragged itself back up. "Wha' happ'nd? Who're you?"

"You fell," said Harry, quickening his steps. If he was lucky, they would make it before the pain set in. "I'm taking you to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey will fix you up."

"Arm hurts," said Neville piteously, and he looked like he might cry. His face twisted into a grimace instead.

"I know," Harry panted. He was not lucky, then. "Hang tight."

Neville's chest shuddered. "A'right."

"Good," said Harry sincerely. "Think you can walk?"

Neville didn't seem to think so. They made it halfway down the first flight of stairs before he collapsed. Harry dragged him the rest of the way down, propped him against the bannisters, and ran to find Madam Pomfrey.

She listened to his tale of woe with a stolid expression. Potions, herbs, and compresses rose in neat piles around her, likely for the aftermath of the Quidditch game. Judging by the faint cheers and claps that floated in the window, it was almost over.

"He fell down the stairs." Madam Pomfrey spoke in a monotone although her hands were flying back and forth, snatching this and that from the prepared tables. "How in Merlin's name did he manage that? Clumsy boy."

"I found him at the bottom."

"What happened to your face?"

Harry's head throbbed, but he dodged her attempts to grab him. "I sneezed and got a bloody nose."

"Mmhmm. And what's that stuff coming out of your pockets?"

"Neville has a broken wrist," Henry said desperately, edging towards the door. "He is in _pain_."

Neville was, in fact, barely lucid when they reached him. He murmured something under his breath as Madam Pomfrey levitated him, and his fingers caught Harry's sleeve. He murmured again, almost inaudibly.

"D'nt take me to 'im. D'nt wanna see 'im. D'nt wanna help with th'plan." He blinked at Harry, his eyes wet and pleading. "Pl'se? Lemme 'lone."

"It's okay. You're going to the infirmary," Harry said, concentrating on Neville's face rather than the jagged little bone poking out of his wrist. The boiled eggs shifted. "Madam Pomfrey will take care of you."

"You should come, too," said the nurse, who was waiting impatiently for Neville to let go of Harry. "I'll have a look at your..."

"My nose is fine." His blood-clogged sinuses butchered the words, but he grinned sickly and waved her off. "I'm going to bed."

* * *

They were hustled out of Hogwarts several days early without explanation. No one minded the longer break, of course, but it was tiresome to be kicked out of bed at four o'clock in the morning, told to pack up, and marched through thick, cold fog to the Express. Evidently their departure had not been expected, because the interior of the train was cold as well. Harry huddled in the corner farthest from the window and sulked as well as his drowsy brain could manage.

"For Merlin's sake, what are you wearing?" Margaret asked, after shoving her way through droves of students to reach his compartment. The train shuddered to a start, creaking and swaying and throwing about the unfortunates who were caught in no man's land.

"They're Muggle clothes and they're called jeans," Harry said irritably. "You know that. I told you about them."

"I wasn't talking about your trousers," said Margaret, plopping down opposite from him. She was always annoyingly cheerful in the morning. Harry made a sad, sleepy, resigned noise and hid his face in the folds of his Weasley-made sweater.

"Don't joke," he groaned. "It's too early for that."

"Not morning people, are we?" Rosier remarked, tracing lines in the fine condensation that had gathered on the glass. Since he lived in the colder northern regions of Scotland, he owned thicker and warmer clothes and didn't mind sitting near a drafty window in the least. Like Margaret, he also did not seem to mind waking up early. It was probably one of those pureblood things, Harry thought ill-temperedly, and his stomach growled, deprived of its hearty Hogwarts breakfast.

"Why are you even here?" he complained, happy to pick a fight about anything with anyone. "You don't live near London."

"Do you dislike my company?" Rosier asked plaintively. He chuckled at the murderous look Harry sent his way and explained, "London is the drop off point. Why make more train lines if we can all go the same way? Diagon Alley is close by, and I can take the Floo Network from there."

"You could take it from Hogwarts and save yourself a trip."

Rosier shrugged. "The Board must think we need a lesson in geography. Besides, as far as I know only one fireplace at Hogwarts is connected. It would get crowded. There, what do you think?"

He had drawn a delicate ice flower on the window, its petals curling outward and long, straggling vines pooling around the stem.

Harry admired it, but for the sake of consistency he said rudely, "It looks like a blob."

"You have no sense of artistry," Rosier told him, unperturbed and with all the poise of a young Michelangelo. Insult turned back on himself, Harry stuck out his tongue.

"We wouldn't get booted from school unless it was for something important," said Margaret, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. While the boys bickered, friendly on one side and not so much on the other, she had been mulling over their situation. "I can't imagine what could have happened, though. They never have a shortage of supplies, and the wards didn't go off last night. Besides, who would want to attack Hogwarts?"

"Who would want to attack anything, for that matter? It sounds exhausting."

"Why does it matter?" Harry asked. The compartment was warm now, the ice flower was languishing, and he felt at peace with both the world and his roommate. "There's no more school! That's a good thing."

"Is it?" Margaret sounded skeptical. "I'm not eager to see my mother and father again. If anything, I'll be studying more than I do at Hogwarts."

Rosier snorted. "Don't bother. They won't notice."

"They certainly will."

"Fine. Owl me your assignments and I'll do them for you. It shouldn't be too difficult."

"I expect you'll pick up French and etiquette with ease, Monsieur Ingénu," Margaret retorted. "And then you can pop right over and demonstrate for my parents."

"Touché." Rosier grinned. "There. See? I do know French. Etiquette comes naturally, and they'll never guess it's me and not you under the hair-lengthening and transformation spells I'll cast."

"Ha-bloody-ha."

"Ha-bloody-ha yourself."

"All right, all right," Harry interrupted. He had no wish to be caught in the middle of someone else's argument. "You've made your point, Margaret, but I doubt you'll have a worse time than me, if that's a comfort. I'll most likely be scrubbing pots and pulling weeds all summer."

Margaret wrinkled her nose. "How revolting. I pity you."

"Thank you."

"I'm going to Greece with my family," said Rosier, cruelly and deliberately tactless. "Father's third cousin-by-marriage once removed owns a villa there and invited us to stay for a month. I've heard the beaches are beautiful, all white sand and glittering blue water. In fact, Julian – that's the cousin – has his own private beach."

"I hope you drown," Margaret said bitterly.

"The water's too shallow. Even if it wasn't, I'm an excellent swimmer."

"Eaten by sharks."

"I love you, too, darling."

"Arse," said Margaret with finality. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer of yours."

"Please do. I'll get bored after drinking my first dozen glasses of chilled raspberry cordial and lounging about in the sun with nothing to do." He ducked a flying shoe. "I'll throw it out the window," he threatened, holding the offending article close to the glass. Margaret lunged at him. "Ow! Bloody hell, get off! Stop it! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Harry rolled his eyes heavenward.

* * *

Ghosts, witches, and werewolves were real. Harry digested that for a moment from his bedroom floor. Everything happened so naturally at Hogwarts, as though spells, ghosts, and werewolves were everyday things, but the wizarding world was really an antiquated capsule of a world, cut off from society. It was not normal in the least. His aunt drove in that point nicely.

"Hedwig," he began, rolling to his stomach. The owl turned her head, blinked once, and continued her endeavors to poke a hole in his sheet. He plucked her off and deposited her on the ground. "Do you think haunted houses are really haunted? With actual ghosts, I mean."

Hedwig sulkily jabbed his arm with her pencil. Harry glared at her.

"It's not my bloody fault you were misbehaving. Give me that. Were you even listen... Ugh, why am I trying? You're just an owl. Don't give me that look."

If Hedwig had been human, Harry was sure she would have turned up her nose and sniffed. As it was, she looked at him reproachfully and gave her feathers a pointed ruffle.

"You are a foul owl," Harry told her. "And let's get back on subject. I know ghosts exist. Peeves and the Bloody Baron are proof enough of that, and I swear, if Nick moans about his flap of not-beheaded head one more time, I'll stomp on his grave."

A pleasing mental image of Nick bouncing in the air every time his feet thumped on the grave came to Harry's mind, and he added the expedition to his bucket list.

"The point is, they're real. By default, haunted houses should be legitimate. Right?" He eyed her unforgiving back through his eyelashes. "So the rickety old house three streets away is haunted, for real."

He was breaking every scientific law by using such terrible logic, but the idea strangely reconciled his worlds with each other. It formed a thread of connection between the two that helped him feel like a single being, rather than at some times like Harry Potter and at other times like That-Bothersome-Thing-Taking-Up-Space-In-Our-House.

"I could pop over and say hullo to whoever's living there," he suggested. "Well, whoever's _not_ living there. Maybe they know someone at Hogwarts. Wouldn't that be funny?"

Hedwig let out a great gust of air and waddled under Harry's bed.

"Oh, am I boring you? I'm so sorry."

He waited for a bit, but she didn't come back out.

"Harry Potter, get down here this instant!" Petunia shrieked, her voice muffled by the floorboards. His bubble of tranquility shattered, Harry sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Hedwig wisely remained in her burrow.

"I'm coming, Aunt Petunia!"

Duty called the Bothersome Thing. Breakfast had to be made, dishes scrubbed, house cleaned, garden weeded, car washed, and all that before Diddykins' birthday trip to London. Harry scowled at the door and wondered what Greek villas were like. Maybe they had marble pillars like the ones in history books, and deep turquoise pools tiled with mosaics, and fresh, exotic flowers tumbling over the walls...

" _Harry_!"

"On my way!"

* * *

Dudley threw a massive temper tantrum when he heard Harry was going to London with them. Harry hung back while he howled, correctly surmising that Vernon and Petunia would cave.

"Do the washing," Petunia said sternly. Happily situated by himself in the back seat, Dudley was humming a wretched rendition of "Big Balls." Harry bit his tongue. "Mop the floors, and then you may sit in your room. If _one_ thing is out of place when we come back..."

She trailed off ominously.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry said dully.

"And no picking through Dudley's presents!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Aunt Petunia."

"We've counted them several times, boy," Vernon boomed, his triple chin bobbing in agitation. "We'll know if you take any."

"Don't worry, Uncle Vernon. They're far too large for me."

His uncle's face turned a curious rainbow of colors and his mouth opened, no doubt to roar out Harry's punishment for the next six years. Harry wished fleetingly that in the future he would remember to keep his own mouth shut.

"Come, Vernon," Petunia cooed hurriedly, wedging herself between them. One half of her face was glaring at Harry, but the other was smiling, if a bit strained. "We can't be late for the show."

Vernon grunted, his face still reddish-purple, and lumbered away in a huff.

"What show?" Harry asked. He didn't remember there being a show in the plans.

"A private magic show for my special boy," Petunia said, with both disgust and tender regard for her son playing upon her face. "Dudders did so want to go. We meant to drop you off at the library."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay home after all?" said Harry. "I could do it, and then you wouldn't have to spend the money."

Petunia's expression convulsed in fury in one hundredth of a second flat.

"Quite sure," she snapped, glancing about herself. Fortunately, Vernon had already puffed his way in the driver's seat, which was well out of hearing range. "And don't you dare speak about... about _those things_ here. Awful child!"

She stalked away without a backward glance. Harry escaped inside and shut the door behind him, listening for the telltale squeal of tires against asphalt. A full ten minutes passed before he decided they were really gone and scurried upstairs.

"The game, Hedwig, is on!" he announced, unfastening the door of her cage. She stretched her wings, fluffed them, and hopped onto his shoulder. "Good girl. Here we go, then. Time to find ourselves some ghosts. Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Hedwig obligingly rubbed her head against his ear.

The house in question was an old brick building with a collapsing roof and an overgrown garden. Nobody had lived there for at least two decades, and the neighborhood children used to dare each other to walk in the front door and out the back window, which was broken. Harry hadn't participated.

The door was bolted today, but its hinges were rusty and weak from disuse. He pushed it aside and crawled in on his hands and knees with Hedwig balanced precariously on his back. The entryway was much darker than he had expected. Harry brushed the dust and dirt from his pants and dug out his wand.

" _Lumos_ ," he whispered, warmth trickling through his body at the familiar words. He thought of Hogwarts' stone passageways, the friendly paintings, his friends, his bedroom, the stately fireplace in the common room, the parties, the feasts, the people...

The tip of his wand didn't even spark.

"Oh, damn it. I thought I had a handle on that one."

Hedwig hooted. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that she was laughing at him.

"You think it's funny, do you?" he said sourly, rolling his shoulders. The hoot swelled to a squawk of outrage. "Well, newsflash, I don't have humongous saucer eyes like you, so it's a bit harder for me to navigate in the dark!"

She bit his ear.

"Ow! For heaven's sake! I thought I had a bird for a pet, not a monster!"

A moment later, he realized that she was trying to neither injure him nor avenge herself, but rather pull them both back to the door. The walls creaked, and something inside them moaned. Harry's stomach dropped.

"You're right. We're going," he hissed to Hedwig, who was squashed fearfully against his neck. "Something's in here, and I don't think it's a ghost after all."

The foundations shook. Harry tripped over his own feet as he scrambled to the door. In his haste, he forgot to look where he was going, and he crashed headlong into someone who was crawling inside.

"What the bloody hell?!" the person yelped.

"What the bloody hell?!" Harry echoed, tumbling back on his behind. He narrowly missed being clipped on the head by a flying candlestick.

A howling wind filled the whole house now. Jarred, Harry made a mad dash for the crack and hoped the idiot on the other side had enough sense to stay out. He flung himself through, Hedwig screeching and flapping, and he somersaulted, over and over and over, until he landed in brambles with a pained grunt.

"Who the hell are you?" someone was yelling. Harry made a face and covered his ears. "What were you doing in there? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

" _Quieter_ ," Harry pleaded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Oh, my head hurts."

"Of course it hurts, you ninny."

The voice had lowered, but it was spitting with anger. Harry cracked his eyes open a slit. The person was a grubby, shabby man. Intelligence sparked his eyes, which were such a pale blue they looked almost white, but his emaciated frame buckled under its weight. He looked more than a little unhinged.

"Who are y... is that a _gun_?" Harry recoiled, his cheeks draining. Nothing was more dangerous than a weapon in the hands of a madman. "You can't carry those! They're not _allowed_. Are you a serial killer? Oh, _please_ shoot for the head. I don't want it to hurt."

The man glanced down at his pistol as if he had only just noticed it was there.

"I'm not a serial killer." He frowned and amended, "Not in the strict sense of it, anyway."

"I didn't know there was any other sense," Harry said faintly.

The house rattled.

"Leave!" the man barked, spinning around and running towards it. "Get out of here, now!"

"Are you crazy?" Harry yelled after him, his concerns making an abrupt about-face. After a split second of indecision, he sprinted after the man and grabbed one jean-clad leg. They came down together with a nasty thump. The man kicked him off and jumped up, fighting mad.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled. "I told you to go away!"

"Are you suicidal? Whatever's in there will kill you! You said so yourself!"

The man did not deign to answer. He ducked inside while Harry stood gaping in the front yard. Common Sense yelled for him to leave. The Slytherin part of him agreed, but that stupid speck of heroism deep inside him whispered, "Help!"

He bolted inside before he could listen to Common Sense. An _Encylcopaedia Britannica_ slammed into his stomach the moment he scrambled through the entryway and left him wheezing for breath. The man was rummaging inside a backpack some feet away from him – Harry spared a second to wonder how on earth he'd managed to fit it through the crack – and he dragged out a dirty cloth bag.

And then something crashed into Harry's head and he cried out in pain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said the man... or who Harry thought must have been him, because his vision was going dark.

 _I knew I should have stayed home today_ , he thought mournfully.

* * *

Cold wetness slithered over Harry's eyes, down his neck, and into his shirt. He lurched upright, coughing and retching, and shook his head to rid it of the feeling.

"That took long enough," said a voice, and Harry whipped his head around to face the speaker.

"You!" he spluttered, too disoriented to do more than clamber back a few paces. He came up against a rough wall. They were behind the house. The haunted house, he remembered belatedly. The one that had come alive and started throwing things at him. Or had that all been a crazy dream? "What did you... did you pour that on me?"

The man shook his water bottle upside down a few times. It was empty.

"Yes," he admitted, without remorse. "It was my last one, too. Now, who are you and why were you poking around that house?"

Harry brushed the remaining droplets of water from his shirt. "I'm not going to tell you about myself. For all I know, you're some psychotic kidnapper. I'm leaving."

"Hold on," said the man, barring his way. "Don't you go running off to report me. That would be a bad plan."

Panic exploding in little bursts in his head, Harry tried to wrestle his arm out of the way. He should never have gone back into that house. What a silly, naive little dunderhead he'd been.

"Let me go," he pleaded, giving up. The man stood solid as stone wall. "I won't go to the police. After all, you haven't done anything to me."

 _Yet_ was the key word, even if it went unspoken.

"Of course you won't. If I had just been cornered by a strange man, I wouldn't, either."

"If you hadn't cornered me, it wouldn't matter, would it?" Harry snapped, hoping the neighbors would hear him. They hadn't heard the gunshots, though, so he didn't hold much hope.

"Pipe down, you're only making a fool of yourself." The man sighed. "Look, my name's Victor. I promise, I don't mean to hurt you. I'll be on my way in a moment."

" _You_ say you're Victor." Harry felt for his wand. A quick stunning spell would do the trick, provided his magic didn't call quits on him. He had to keep the man occupied. "Why do you care whether I look at a haunted house or not?"

"The less people killed, the better. Next time I won't be here to stop it."

Harry's hand paused in its determined digging. "Stop what?"

Victor frowned.

"Oh, what's the use?" he said finally, and continued with the air of one who knew he would not be believed, "It was a poltergeist. A nasty one, but luckily it wasn't too powerful. We'd both be dead if it had been, no thanks to you."

"A _poltergeist_?" Peeves was a nuisance, but he was no killer. "I thought they were... why was it trying to kill us?"

Victor eyed him wryly. "Welcome to the world of a hunter."

* * *

 **Feedback would be much appreciated. Thanks!**


	3. HbD Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke (or whosoever is in charge now). I might sort of-ish own this particular arrangement of words. Hurray.**

 **This chapter gave me a ton of trouble, hence the delay. The long and short of it is that I was plagued with a deadly combination of writer's block, real life, and an ongoing struggle with awkward phrasing. I kept rewriting it again and again. And then it had to be beta-ed. Then I rewrote the first part. The new portion had to be beta-ed. Etc. Etc. Very exasperating business... but, hey, it's history now! (Thank goodness)**

 **Thanks to SomniumAstrum and Kurama's Foxy Rose for their invaluable beta work, especially for condemning the crappiness of the first draft. You're awesome! And thank you also to my reviewers: goodnight-lock and Sailor Pandabear.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Hunter by Definition

Chapter II

* * *

A moment of utter silence came and went.

" _Stupefy_!" Harry exclaimed, quickly snatching his wand from the back of his trousers and pointing it at the man. Hand halfway to his holstered revolver, the man froze. Harry stopped short in sheer surprise. Could he have finally...

"What's that supposed to mean?" Victor asked witheringly, without a trace of the fear his trembling hands suggested. He scrabbled in his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. "Abracadabra, you turn me into a frog. How bloody awful."

The wand in Harry's fist suddenly felt foolish and cumbersome. "What's a hunter?" he countered.

Victor exhaled a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, and it crept up the breeze into Harry's face.

"I wish you wouldn't shove that thing in my face," Victor said irritably. He tapped the end of the cigarette with his pinky. "You're lucky I'm not one of those 'shoot first, ask questions later' sort of chaps. Put it away, will you?"

"It is a very dangerous weapon," Harry warned, relieved to find himself with some control over the situation. He stood a bit straighter.

"That you clearly don't know how to use well. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

For a moment they stood, gauging each other's appearance with narrowed eye. Harry saw a gaunt, youngish man, who carried a gun _and_ a knife, yes – a flash of silver from his belt betrayed the last – but who looked too much like a druggie to be all that threatening. Besides, for all his snappishness, he had an air of candor.

"Ronald," Harry said finally, lowering his wand an inch or two but not entirely lowering his guard. "Ronald Weasley."

"I suppose you're the black sheep of the family," Victor replied, with a nasty note in his voice. He took another drag from his cigarette, which had visibly shortened. "Listen here, Ronald Weasley. I'm going. Leave it at that, and you'll be all right."

Somehow the self-professed hunter had maneuvered himself so that he held the trump card. The warm summer air seemed to drop several degrees.

"Will I?" Harry asked, his voice catching.

"Quite. Goodbye, Weasley." Victor picked up his bag, his arms loose and relaxed. Harry, on the other hand, felt trapped, but he couldn't let him leave without asking one more question.

"What if it comes back? The poltergeist?"

"I banished it and purified the house. You won't have trouble," Victor told him, acting for all the world like a reassuring parent. He dropped his used cigarette and ground it under his heel. "But for emergencies, I'll give you this."

"This" was a square of paper with a phone number written on it in crooked, loopy letters. Harry held it gingerly between his thumb and his index finger and looked Victor straight in the eye.

"You just threatened me," he said slowly, "and now you're all magnanimous. 'Here's a number, call if you're in trouble.' What am I supposed to think?"

Victor stared at him for nearly a minute without blinking, and then he unexpectedly grinned.

"Think what you like," he returned, snatching another cigarette from his pocket deftly and popping it between his lips. "You're the one with the very dangerous weapon."

* * *

Thankfully, Victor didn't come back – Harry gave him no reason to carry out his threat – and neither did the poltergeist. Unfortunately, that meant nothing broke the monotony of July and August, not even the day that was a birthday only in name. Hermione did write him faithfully once a week, but Margaret bemoaned Rosier's luck and her vile duties before lapsing into a nine week long silence.

" _Hullo, Harry. Guess what?_ " Ron had scribbled on a scrap of homework scroll. He didn't have a proper notion of how to write evenly, so globs of ink blotted out a quarter of the words while the other seventy-five percent was thin and faded. He had clearly been in a hurry. " _Dad's finished his project on one of your Muggle contraptions called..._ " There was a dark smudge and he continued, " _cars. It can fly! He's taking us boys on a ride now, so I've got to dash. Hope you're doing fine. Yours truly, Ron._ "

Harry answered quickly and just as messily – his quill was worn at the end and ballpoint pens didn't write well on parchment – but it ended up being for nothing as Errol, the Weasleys' feeble old owl, was far too exhausted to do more than collapse on his bed. Harry stared at the bundle of feathers and resisted the urge to kick something.

Rosier's letter was so brief it looked almost like a telegram. " _Having a ripping time. Warm and sunny. Not drowning either. How are the pots?_ "

He really had very little tact. Harry again felt the urge to kick something. Instead, he stalked outside moodily and sat on the front step twirling his wand. It made Dudley nervous. He had five minutes of sweet, sweet power before Petunia noticed and screeched for him to wash the vegetables.

The supply list from Hogwarts arrived on the dot by snowy white owl. Harry ripped the envelope in his excitement and drank in the long-awaited words.

" _Second year students will require:_

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade II _by Miranda Goshawk_

Break with a Banshee _by Gilderoy Lockhart_

Gadding with Ghouls _by Gilderoy Lockhart_

Holiday with H..."

He stopped there. A quick scan showed that the faceless Lockhart's alliterative trend continued. _Travels with Trolls_ , _Voyages with Vampires_ , and the list went on with equally hideous titles.

"You must be joking," Ron said, when they met in Flourish and Blotts that week. His skin was just healing from the summer sun, and dense, dark freckles sprinkled his face. "You've never heard of Gilderoy Lockhart? Well, you've got all the bloody luck."

"You don't like him," was Harry's astute observation.

"Of course I don't like him. He's a _prat_."

"He does seem a bit vain," said Harry, who had opened one of the assigned books only to see a blindingly white flash of teeth and carefully coifed curls. He shut it hastily.

"That's one way to put it. Mum and Ginny adore him, but I hope Hermione has the sense not..."

"I see you've started collecting your books," Hermione exclaimed, unexpectedly popping up over their shoulders. Ron jumped, and then he scowled and shifted away. His eyes had lit up, though, and Hermione took no offense. "I was so excited when I saw the list for this year! You know we're to be taught by Gilderoy Lockhart himself?"

"You say it like it's a good thing."

Harry brightened at the new voice. "Margaret!"

The quintessential Slytherin, Margaret didn't pop up anywhere; she manifested coolly at the end of the aisle, with every strand of hair precisely in place and without a crease in her dark blue robes. Harry, who was decidedly _not_ the quintessential Slytherin, beamed and rushed over to greet her.

"How are you? How's Rosier?" he asked. As distant relatives, the Rosiers and Lestranges mingled often, so his two friends saw each other much more frequently than they did him.

Margaret's face soured, and she pursed her lips tightly. "We're not speaking for now," she said. "There have been issues between our families. It's all nasty business that I don't think you'll want to hear about, but no matter. It'll straighten out like it always does."

"Rosier doesn't usually care about that sort of thing."

"Well, I'm not him, am I?" Margaret replied shortly. "Afternoon, Weasley."

Ron had joined them, hovering at Harry's shoulder and watching Margaret with some caution. His hair looked particularly orange under the dusty bookshop lamps, like a great, bright warning sign. He inclined his head towards her. "Lestrange."

"Granger."

"Hullo," said Hermione, also with caution. They stood in awkward silence for nearly half a minute, with an invisible but glaringly obvious barrier between them. Their civility was purely for Harry's sake, and he knew it.

"Oh, are you playing that statue game? Count me in." Rosier's face cracked into a grin, and he waved a stack of Lockhart's books at them hilariously as he strolled over. His face was sunburned, especially his nose and prominent cheekbones, and he'd hit his (rather late) growth spurt. Now he towered even over the lanky, big-boned Ron. "Hey, Harry. Hullo, Ron, Hermione. _Margaret_."

He sent her a humorous, sidelong glance, which she ignored, and he patted Ron on the back in passing. Ron said nothing, and looked conflicted.

"I'm not going to ask how Greece was," Harry told him. "But I am glad to see you."

"I get the feeling that someone here doesn't share your sentiments." Rosier eyed Margaret again with mock subtlety. Turning away, she began to flip through _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade II_. "Don't you think you're being a bit old-fashioned, Marge?"

"Tell him," Margaret said to Harry, "that I would appreciate some peace and quiet, and that my name is not _Marge_."

Rosier looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes but considered himself too dignified for such behavior.

"I'd better go," said Ron, looking between them uneasily. "Mum wanted me to meet her outside once I was done so that we could get another cauldron. Gin's starting this year, you know."

"Right. I'll see you, then."

Ron nodded his agreement and took off, dragging Hermione behind him.

"I can't wait for the term to start!" she called, twisting around to wave. "Goodbye until Hogwarts!"

Harry waved back. Behind him, Margaret stood, stubbornly mute, and Rosier watched her with equal parts annoyance and regret. Ron and Hermione's departure didn't seem to have eased the tension. Harry cleared his throat.

"Did you ever find out why we left so early last year?"

"I did," said Rosier, rousing himself from his thoughts. "You know that Longbottom chap? The first year from Gryffindor? Well, it turns out he's dead."

"Dead?" Harry echoed in dazed horror, feeling rather like someone had punched him in the stomach. "He's _dead_? Neville Longbottom?"

"That's right. Awful stuff, too. Pomfrey found him with his throat slit, blood everywhere, but it's all been hushed up by the board. Murders are bad for business."

"Who would _do_ that?"

 _D'nt wanna help with th'plan._ Neville had been weeping, terrified and in pain. _Pl'se? Lemme 'lone_. And Harry had left him alone. Inwardly, he cursed himself.

"I really don't know. I mean, he was a little git, but he didn't deserve _that_. Dumbledore is setting up more wards. My dad said he's been trying to get help from professionals. But I tell you, I'm not going anywhere inside Hogwarts without a wand in my hand and a curse on my tongue."

Harry swallowed and pushed back a hot, heavy clump of hair from his forehead. The words seemed to have sucked all the air out of his lungs. It couldn't merely be a coincidence that Neville had known some demonic plan, and that now he was dead.

"Stop there," Rosier said, eyes and voice sharp. Harry stopped mid-motion, wildly wondering for a split second if he had heard his thoughts. But Rosier was staring at his forehead.

"What is it? Is there something on my face?"

Rosier peered closer and frowned. "More like there _isn't._ Your scar is disappearing," he said, sounding perplexed. "It's almost gone."

Harry felt for the familiar puckered scar tissue. "That's ridiculous. What are you talking about?"

"No, honestly. Look at yourself in a mirror. It was light enough last year, but I thought that was because your biographies liked to exaggerate. It's definitely faded since then."

"That's natural, though, isn't it?" Harry asked, still probing his forehead. The scar did feel less pronounced than before, but the change had been too gradual for him to notice. "Scars go away over time."

"This isn't a normal scar, Harry. The Killing Curse runs by a completely different set of rules."

"It's not like it managed to kill me, either," Harry said, but the joke fell flat. Once more, he rubbed at the almost nonexistent scar and yanked his hair down over it. "Anyway, what do you know about the effects of the Killing Curse, besides it _killing_ people?"

"Don't be melodramatic, Rosier," Margaret snapped, breaking her self-imposed silence. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. Harry's fine, and if the scar's going away, then all the better. Really, sometimes you can be the silliest pair of goons I've ever met."

"I'm not melodramatic," said Rosier, indignantly. "Just concerned."

"You're an overgrown monkey. Concerned, my arse."

"And a very pretty one it is, too."

"You disgust me," said Margaret primly.

* * *

Several thousand miles away, in a small and unremarkable Kansan town called Lawrence, Sam Winchester sat at the kitchen table and gnawed on a pencil. It wasn't because he particularly liked the activity, or because said pencil tasted good (although he sometimes wished it did), but because the multiplication table was a total – he snuck a glance around him before thinking it – _asshole_. Certain people had an uncomfortable habit of hearing his thoughts.

"Dad!" he yelled, throwing the thoroughly chewed pencil through the air in a fit of frustration. "Dad, what's eleven times twelve?"

There was no answer. Sam glared at the little "x" sign. It wasn't fair. He hadn't even turned ten yet, so what was the point in studying even bigger numbers? He knew what Dean would say, and it was nothing helpful. Always the same thing: "Wait until you get to geometry. It's _way_ harder."

"Dad!" he yelled again. His voice echoed eerily through the house. _DAD... DAd... Dad... dad_. It circled back unanswered. Something wasn't right. A mixture of excitement and apprehension sent a thrill down Sam's spine, and he clambered from his chair with a parting grimace at his worksheet.

The living room was empty, as were all the bedrooms, but their crummy old van still sat stolidly in the garage beside the bikes and tennis rackets. Maybe, if Dean was really not here... Sam reverently reached out towards the glass box that housed The Baseball. But he pulled away at the last moment and dashed back inside, a little frightened at his own daring.

"Addie? Mom? You there?" he tried next. "Mom?!"

" _MOM... MOm... Mom... mom!_ " the house called back mockingly.

"Dean!"

No answer. The basement was empty, too.

"This isn't funny, guys," Sam insisted, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. It broke through, to his mortification. "Dean? Please, Dean? I'm sorry for whatever I did! Dean!"

He sat on the last step and buried his face in his knees. They had all left him. They didn't like him anymore, clearly… they must have thought he caused too much trouble. Dad probably figured he was too bad at math, or Mom had found out about her missing bath plug. _Maybe Dean knew about the comic books_. He stopped breathing from sheer horror.

And then, most blessed of all blessed sounds, he heard someone calling, "Sam? Sammy?"

Choking on a sob of relief, Sam scrambled to his feet, wiping his nose on his sleeve and struggling to make himself presentable. "Dean? I'm here!"

"What's your dumb little butt doing down there?" Dean bawled back, his irritated voice falling like sweet music on Sam's ears. "The front door is locked!"

Breathing hard, Sam skidded to a stop in front of the screen. The latch was firmly in place.

"Yeah, you moron," Dean told him, evidently reading his mind. His cheeks were sticky with sweat and very red, and he was panting. "We're all outside. Dad said to finish the problem you're working on, and then you can join us." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Were you crying?"

Sam rubbed a fist against his nose and shook his head. It had just occurred to him that the solution was one hundred and thirty-two. "Just soap in my eye. I'll be back in a second."

"Hey!" Dean yelled after him. "I'm still locked out! Let me in?"

For some unknown reason, Sam hesitated. "Why?" he asked, a bit of doubt creeping in his tone.

"Because I have to go to the bathroom." Dean rolled his eyes and stamped his feet impatiently. "What are you waiting for? Would you _please_ let me in?"

Sam dragged his feet towards the door. It felt like he was walking in quicksand, almost the way it felt to walk in a dream. _Don't_ , some internal voice told him, or rather screamed at him.

"Please?" said Dean, as though he had heard it.

Sam stopped, a sick twist in his gut, and shook his head slowly. "I don't want to."

" _Sam_ ," Dean said, more harshly now. "Dad'll throw the football, and Mom won't catch it, and my team's going to lose as usual. Don't be a little dick. I know you're always trying to help him win. Is it going to be a yes or a no?"

Sam blinked rapidly, hoping the moisture gathering in his eyes was because of the brisk breeze.

"Whatever. Fine."

He pulled back the latch, and his brother pushed the door open. He was grinning now, widely and in a distinctly un-Dean way. His eyes shone so brilliantly that they looked almost blue... not the blue of a calm summer sky, but the blue of a glacier, of hard, cold chips of ice.

"Thanks, Sammy," said Dean.

* * *

 **I've noticed that, while this story has a number of hits, faves, and follows, I don't have many reviews. I certainly won't halt chapter uploads because of it (slow and infrequent as they already are… sorry about that!), but it is a bit discouraging not to get feedback. It's hard to improve my writing when I don't hear anything from you guys, which includes both negative and positive comments. Really, if there's something you dislike about the way I write, or errors in grammar/spelling/punctuation or plot continuity, feel free to call me out on them. :)**

 **Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**


	4. HbD Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke (or whosoever is in charge now). I think y'all knew that already, though.**

 **Hey, this chapter didn't take as long as the last one for me to put out! I hope you like it. Things are starting to heat up a bit.**

 **Thanks to SomniumAstrum for being an amazing beta, as usual. Seriously, I can't tell you how grateful I am, especially for your honesty and encouragement. Really appreciate that. :) Thanks also to my reviewers: justaislinn, Sianna Scale, belle hawk, hikari-kitsune-chan, and 553Colinm.**

 **Now, on with the show!**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Hunter by Definition

Chapter III

* * *

"What exactly is this mysterious feud between your family and Margaret's?" Harry asked, twirling his quill expertly between his fingers. The ink smeared onto his thumb and left a stain on the last line of his essay.

The first few weeks of the school year had been undemanding. Even McGonagall tolerated the students' shenanigans – the Weasley twins hid vomit-inducing jellies in the desserts, and she let them off with only a rap on the knuckles. Harry couldn't appreciate it. He already had to split his attention three ways, between Margaret, Rosier, and his friends in Gryffindor.

The gigantic textbook across from him sprouted legs and shifted away. "It's complicated."

Harry knew that much. The Notts had allied themselves with the Rosiers, while the Malfoys and the Lestranges were sticking together in tight knots with Crabbes and Goyles trailing after them. Harry had a feeling that Dumbledore skulked at the epicenter of the conflict.

"Just because I'm not a pureblood doesn't mean I won't understand," he said. "I'm not stupid."

"I'm tired of the whole thing." The book tipped sideways in an indignant manner. "Do be quiet."

"No need to be rude." Harry pushed away the embossed cover. Exposed, Rosier glared at him. "I don't feel like talking to..." Harry glanced at the title. " _Lippett's History of Muggle Relations._ What is it about?"

"I should think the title explains pretty well."

"Why are you reading it?"

"It's none of your business."

Harry said nothing. He tossed the stained parchment. The fireplace shed a warm light over the common room, dispelling the eerie glow of the lake, and soon he was diligently scratching away at his essay again. A long time passed before he heard a crackle of paper, not from himself.

Rosier was staring at his crumpled first draft with pursed lips.

"Having trouble?" he asked eventually.

"Yes," said Harry, not quite sure where the conversation was heading. "I copied that part and tried to work off it, but the words don't flow together properly."

"You ramble too much." Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Rosier had already confiscated his quill and dipped it in ink. "I used to go on for pages as well. Cut it down to the bare facts."

"McGonagall wants three feet."

"Then collect more information."

"That's so much work," Harry moaned, burying his face in his arms. "Too much, too much."

A bony elbow jabbed his chest, and he jumped. "Do you want an Outstanding or not? Do you think I'm blind? You're failing your classes because you still can't change a bloody match to silver!"

"I'm doing all right in Potions," Harry argued, rubbing his injured rib.

"You're acceptable. Literally," said Rosier.

"Shut up."

The quiet crackling of the fire drew a comforting blanket over the silence. A pair of tall, sleepy-eyed girls crept through the entrance, giggling softly, and disappeared into their half of the dorms. Harry curled his bare feet under him. Coldness seeped through his thin robes.

"I admit that Margaret isn't the only one with family pride," Rosier said. Harry lifted his head, but the other boy was staring into the flickering flames. "My family is obviously important to me, too. But this time I'm the one who's right."

Pen and paper forgotten, Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and scooted closer.

"You probably are." He had great faith in Rosier's good sense and – generally – unclouded judgment. Loyalty blinded Margaret. "What's the issue?"

Rosier's Adam's apple bobbed up and down once. "I told you about Longbottom."

Goosebumps rose on Harry's arms. "Right. The... the slit throat."

Rosier shot him a quick and humorless smile. "Yes, that. And I told you about Dumbledore taking measures to protect Hogwarts."

"I remember. But what has that got to do with..."

"I'm getting to it. Dumbledore wanted to get help." He stared at Harry meaningfully. " _Outside_ help. He had to consult the board first, though, and the members split evenly. They're at a stalemate. Now Dumbledore is threatening to go ahead without clearance, which he does about ninety percent of the time anyway. Father thinks they should allow it..."

"But the others don't," Harry finished for him. An icy dungeon draft swept up from the floor and licked his fingers. He shivered. "I see. Except... well, what's wrong with outside help?"

"They're Muggles."

" _Muggles_? You know that I don't have anything against them, but it does sound silly. Don't we have spells to track fugitives and investigate crimes scenes and things?"

"I don't know much about that part. It's one of the Ministry's better-kept secrets. If they want to break the Statute of Secrecy, let them." Rosier sniffled and rubbed his nose vigorously. A tousled lock of hair fell over his forehead. "Do you have a handkerchief?"

Harry dug through his pockets. "None, sorry."

"My hands are dirty."

"I'm sure you can survive for a few minutes."

Rosier sniffed again, this time in displeasure, and stuck his hands out in front of him stiffly like a mannequin. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve times, its deep tone bouncing back and forth from the opposite wall.

"Do you think she doesn't..." Rosier began when the last echo had faded.

Harry plugged his ears. "No more, _please_. Ask her yourself if you want to know so badly."

"She won't talk to me."

"That's your problem, not mine," said Harry, gathering his books and preparing to flee. "I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Besides, it's late. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

He could still hear Rosier muttering as he walked away.

* * *

The scar was gone. A flash of anxiety burst through Harry, and he leaned forward, his knees digging painfully into the cold edge of the sink. Even so, he couldn't help wondering if it was silly to be attached to the thing.

But no, it wasn't gone. Harry stared at the faint, hairlike mark splayed across his forehead. The fanning tendrils that had reached all the way to his hairline had all but disappeared, but the scar was still there. He was still Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, with the lightning scar.

Harry leaned back on his heels. The bathroom was empty, or else he wouldn't be staring for so long at his reflection, but soon someone would come. He arranged his hair over the disappearing scar and headed for the kitchens.

"But do you like cooking? As in, really _like_ it?" Hermione was saying as he walked in. The house elf she was cross-examining mumbled a flurry of excuses and scuttled into the pantry. A spasm of frustration crossed Hermione's face.

"What was that about?" Harry asked, settling comfortably into the corner stool. He had a vague idea, and it tickled him. "The poor thing didn't look happy."

"Oh, hullo, Harry," said Hermione, slipping down from the counter. "And I should think not. She isn't a thing. Her name is Wheezy."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but Wheezy doesn't much like you."

She gave him an injured look. "I'm trying to help. This," she swept her arm in a wide arc, "this is all she's ever known. Cooking and cleaning and serving people without pay? It's pathetic. How does that make you feel? To be waited on by _slaves_?"

"Awful," said Harry, yawning. "Is there any tea?"

"I told her that we would be happy to make it ourselves," Hermione said, with a hint of triumph in her voice. Harry's mood soured.

"It's her job."

"Calling it a 'job' implies that she gets something out of it. Which she doesn't."

"She was probably perfectly satisfied until you came along," Harry grumbled. "Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. Or, more appropriately, never tickle a sleeping dragon."

"You'll come around," Hermione told him, taking charge of the kettle herself. She pulled out a flowered tea service and rummaged through the cabinets. "Sooner or later."

"Later is right." Harry watched her through the corner of his eye. He sighed. "All right, hand over the bread. Don't think you can guilt me into cutting it every time, though. Why didn't Ron come?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but with more affection than scorn. "He's trying out for the team."

"What team?"

"The Quidditch team, of course. Do you or do you not attend Hogwarts? And the same to you: where are your friends?"

"They're busy," said Harry, sawing off a final chunk of bread. He handed her the crusty, still-warm slices and watched while she arranged them neatly in a basket. "Rosier is at Hogsmeade, and Margaret is working. They aren't much fun these days."

"So I'm just the substitute."

Harry lifted his head sharply. Hermione gave him a lopsided smile and whisked the tea tray into the adjoining room. He frowned and followed her in.

"You know that isn't true, Hermione."

He hung behind and tried to read her back. No tense muscles, no hunched shoulders. Her hair had been bullied into a knot at the base of her neck. It bounced when she turned, folding the empty tray to her chest.

"Don't be so serious! I was only joking."

"Were you?" Harry asked. He wondered whether the muscle in her cheek was twitching from amusement or something else. "Because I _am_ serious. You were my second ever friend, and that was only because I ended up in Ron's compartment first."

"I'm absolutely certain," Hermione assured him. The muscle stopped twitching. She cleared her throat. "The tea is getting cold."

"What is this place, anyway?" Harry asked, once they'd sat down. He rarely visited this part of Hogwarts, but evidently both the kitchen and its occupants were old friends to Hermione.

"I'm not sure what it was intended to be. Sometimes I come down for snacks while I study, and this is where the elves put me. It's sort of a mix between a lounge and a dining room. The fire keeps it warm during the winter, so it's nice." She took a bite of bread and kippers and made a contented noise. "But that isn't important. I've something to tell you."

Harry, who had realized in the middle of buttering his own bread that he wasn't hungry after all, jumped at the chance for interesting conversation. "What's that?"

"I've been reading."

"What a surprise," said Harry, sinking back into lethargy.

"Isn't it?" Hermione returned smartly. "Well, you'll want to hear about it this time. It's about you. I've been reading your biography and researching the Killing Curse."

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"Don't be silly, Harry, you were only one. And you don't know anything about dark magic."

"All right," Harry conceded. He scratched his ear, hand itching to touch his forehead. "What did you find?"

"Not much on the Killing Curse specifically," Hermione told him. Her voice was muffled as she dug through her bag. She emerged and pushed a scroll across the table. Harry took it. It was covered with neat rows of scribbles. "Those are my notes. Every single author skirts around the curse itself. I think that's absurd, just like the whole You-Know-Who business. Of course everyone is going to be frightened of an evil and nameless presence."

Harry squinted at the parchment. "So what is this?"

Hermione snatched it away. "Sorry, I forgot I wrote in shorthand. Basically, according to all available evidence, your scar should be permanent. It's almost impossible to completely heal from wounds caused by dark magic. I'm talking about cursed blades, powerful hex bags, extended exposure to the Cruciatus curse..."

"The Cruciatus curse?"

"I'm not sure exactly what it is," Hermione hedged, without meeting his eyes. "All I know is that during the last war, a number of people ended up in St. Mungo's because of it. Some went insane, others still go there regularly for treatment."

"Permanent scars," Harry said aloud but mostly to himself. Or not so permanent.

"I'm sorry. I meant to show you that you had nothing to worry about. It looked like it was bothering you a lot more than it should have. But now I wonder if I've only made it worse. I had to tell you, though."

"No, no, of course," Harry agreed. His fingers strayed unbidden to the scar. "Do you think we should talk to someone about it? Madam Pomfrey? The headmaster?"

"Do you think so?"

"I'd feel a bit silly."

"I think we're both being silly," Hermione decided. She poured herself another cup of tea and made a face. "Ugh, it's lukewarm. Look, getting nervous about a curse mark appearing is one thing, but about it disappearing is ridiculous. Either way," she added after a pause, "you're still Harry."

Harry fiddled with his teacup. The tea leaves eddied into a feathery pattern. "I guess so."

"On a different note," said Hermione, much more sternly, "you _do_ need to talk to McGonagall about your Transfiguration, Flitwick about your Charms, and Professor Lockhart," her voice changed, "about your Defense."

It didn't escape Harry's notice that the only professor who retained the dignity of his title was Lockhart. "He won't help me. He'll just tell me another one of his stories. I've heard every one at least twice by now, and each time they get more fantastic."

Hermione sniffed. "You underestimate him."

"To be frank, I think I give him too much credit," said Harry, who had gone to enough of Lockhart's classes to get a good grasp of his character. "Do you remember the pixies?"

"Yes, but..."

"And the snake that almost killed Finch-Fletchley? Lockhart didn't do anything. That was the only time I've ever been glad Snape was in the room."

"He's a hero," said Hermione, because that was what she always fell back on. She looked disgruntled.

"If he's a hero, I don't want to be one," Harry told her, sipping his cold tea. The fire was dying to red embers. Wheezy poked her head in, saw that Hermione was looking the other way, and disappeared again. "We had better get back. Ron will be looking for you, either for congratulations or a shoulder to sob on."

"I'm sure he got the spot. He's been dragging me to the pitch every day." Hermione dug through her bag for a second time and pulled out a hefty book titled _Quidditch Through the Ages_. She shoved it in Harry's face. "This is what I've been reduced to reading about! Sports!"

"Disgraceful," Harry agreed.

"Not that it's so terribly boring," Hermione admitted, putting the book away more calmly. "But don't tell Ron I said that. He would never let me hear the end of it."

She forgot the dishes after all, but Harry's conscience prodded him incessantly until he gave in, with less than charitable feelings. It felt strange without Petunia hanging over his shoulder.

Several minutes after Hermione's footsteps had receded down the corridor, a pitter-patter of tiny feet crept up from behind. He stiffened, arms deep in soapsuds.

"Master doesn't needs to work." It was the house elf, the elusive Wheezy. "Little mistress is not right, Wheezy is honored to be doing work at Hogwarts. We is all happy and... and we doesn't feels like slaves. We is very honored to be Hogwarts elves."

"I told her that," said Harry, trying not to laugh. He wiped his hands on a gritty towel. It smelled musty and a bit burnt. He frowned. No, that couldn't be the towel. "What's that smell?"

"Wheezy's biscuits!" Wheezy squawked, flitting in distressed circles. Harry jumped out of the way. She dashed to the oven and pulled out the rack. An ear-splitting howl spewed from her tiny throat. "Owwwoowoowooww they's burned!"

"My goodness, you _have_ got a voice," said Harry, having been temporarily stunned speechless.

"They's _ruined_!" Wheezy wailed, clinging to the tray of charred dough.

"They aren't so bad. We can scrape off the burnt bits."

"They's ruined," said Wheezy again, although her voice held less conviction.

Harry picked up a lump and chipped of some of the soot. He handed it back to her dubiously. "There, all better now."

Successful or otherwise, this episode must done something for the house elves' opinion of him, because after that he was always welcome in the kitchen. Hermione told him it was a great honor, especially for a Slytherin. She added generously, "But you're a pretty Gryffindor sort of Slytherin. They just don't like pureblood slave masters."

From the way Wheezy slunk away after that remark, Harry thought she was probably right.

* * *

"The most important ingredient in this particular potion is the flagellus lipticus. Why is that?" Harry threw up his hand, half rising in his seat. But Snape's eyes flicked over him for the hundredth time without so much as a pause. "Malfoy?"

Malfoy shot to his feet, the corner of his mouth jeering at him, and rattled off the answer. Harry seethed. The spindly plant in front of him smelled like dirty socks and rotten milk and vomit, and Snape's gross unfairness added nothing to the situation. Nothing good, at any rate.

"Five points to Slytherin," said Snape approvingly. Malfoy sat down again, mouth still twisted in that repulsive little smirk of his. Harry snorted. The black eyes finally landed on him, cold and placid. "Did you say something, Potter?"

Hermione was shaking her head at him, hair bouncing in all directions.

"My hand went up first..."

"No, it didn't," said Malfoy smugly.

"It did. It was my turn to answer," Harry plowed on, gripping the edges of his table with white knuckles. Through the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione shrink in resignation. " _My_ turn. I'm trying to take part in your class and you never let me."

"Are you questioning my authority?" Snape's voice was dangerous in its smoothness. The entire class quieted, even the usually chittering girls in the back.

"Sit down, dammit," whispered Theodore Nott, who probably regretted choosing him as a partner. He spoke through gritted teeth. "It won't work. _Sit down_."

Harry set his jaw. It was the principle of the matter that bothered him, not the ignored hand or the fact that Malfoy had answered correctly. "You're not being fair. I don't know why you hate my father so much, but I wish you'd say things right out instead of punishing me for whatever he did. It's childish."

Snape stared at him for the few moments of horrified silence that followed. There was a soft thud as Hermione's head made contact with the table.

"Five points to Slytherin for bringing up an interesting discussion topic," Snape said finally. The room took a collective breath and came back to life. "Unfortunately we don't have time to go off on tangents. Now, if you would all turn to page 456..."

"I don't want your five..." Nott gripped Harry's hand before he could say any more and yanked him down so violently that his tailbone sent painful tremors up his spine. Immediately every one of Snape's potion vials exploded. A myriad shards of glass whizzed by Harry's face. Students were shrieking and yelling and diving for cover, and above the din rose Snape's outraged roar.

" _POTTER!_ "

Just as suddenly, it was over. One girl was weeping as she crawled from under her table, but no one else made a sound. A kettle rolled in a slow arc and bumped into Harry's feet, swayed, settled.

Lamplight glinted against the spilled potions. A pool of red here, of purple there, yellow and green and blue swirling together like a psychedelic peppermint candy. In the farthest corner, something was bubbling into pure white froth over moss as dark as night. Snape stood in the middle of the wreckage, his back to the class.

"Ten years," he murmured, as if in a daze. The hem of his robe had been soaked to a inky black. "Ten years' work, gone. Ruined."

In cheeky reply, the puddle nearest him crackled and spit out blue-green sparks. The weeping girl screamed. Snape leapt back.

"Get out!" he barked, roused from his despair. "All of you, get out! Class dismissed!"

"Your robe, Professor!" Hermione cried. The crackling grew louder. "It's on fire!"

"Do as you're told, Miss Granger!"

Gray smoke billowed around them, obscuring the shattered glass and Snape's desk. The man himself stood between it and them and muttered spells, sending flashes of blue and white light into the medley of spilled potions.

"What are you waiting for?" Nott gasped. Harry had forgotten he was there. His face was covered in tiny cuts and welts, and his robes were wet like Snape's. Harry rubbed his own cheeks. They were smooth. "Snape knows what he's talking about. Potions spills are dangerous."

"I'm coming."

Snape's eyes caught his before he reached the doorway. They burned with suppressed fury. "If I find out you were behind this, Potter," he said softly, "you will be sorry. Very sorry indeed."

Harry swallowed.

* * *

 **As reviewer belle hawk pointed out, it's a little early to get disgruntled over a lack of reviews. Thanks for the reminder. I can be an impatient sort of person. That being said, though, I still would love to hear feedback! Thanks!**


	5. HbD Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke (or whosoever is in charge now).**

 **A huge thank you to SomniumAstrum for all your beta work. Thanks also to my reviewers: white collar black wolf, DeathGraised, and Shebajay. I've read every one of your reviews at least twice, or thrice, or four times! They're very much appreciated.**

* * *

BOOK ONE

Hunter by Definition

Chapter IV

* * *

The gargoyle was staring at him. Harry lifted his fist to knock and halted foolishly an inch from its nose. He stuck out his chin with false bravado.

"Sherbet Lemon."

The gargoyle moved. Harry backed away, but it shifted out of the way. A staircase wound into murky darkness above. He frowned. If only McGonagall had come with him! She could walk anywhere and look like she belonged. But it didn't matter. All he had to do was tell the truth, and everyone would understand that he had done nothing wrong… that, in fact, he had done nothing at all. The thought steeled his resolve long enough for him to step onto the first stair, and it carried him up to the headmaster's office.

The Potions classroom had been blocked off after the accident, and the upcoming homework and tests had been suspended. Snape came out of his den only for meals. Harry steered clear of him. The man was probably trying to get him expelled for exploding his potions, but he hadn't… he _hadn't_.

The stairs ended, and beyond them he saw an open door. The headmaster's office was a quaint, round room, full of gadgets and stodgy portraits – some empty, most sleeping. The Sorting Hat sat on a shelf further in, past some curious, spindly-legged tables, and shelves of books, and a globe that spun steadily and gave off prickles of light. Harry might have found the place fascinating if he hadn't been so worried.

"Headmaster?" he called, not daring to venture far from the doorway. "It's Harry Potter. Professor McGonagall said you wanted me."

There was no answer. The door swung a few inches from its resting place, looking for a moment as if it would slam shut upon him, but it slowed and stopped. The headmaster's desk was bathed in the warm light of an oil lamp. Harry drew closer and touched the bell-shaped glass cover. It was cool. Dumbledore could not have been gone long.

"Headmaster?" he said again. A rustle behind him made him turn, but it was only a bird. Its feathers were red and gold, and they glinted softly in the lamplight. Its orb-like black eyes caught his and held them, with queer knowledge lurking in their depths. The next moment, it was a normal bird, preening and chirping to itself.

"It's good to see you, Harry."

Harry started and stepped back. "I didn't touch anything, sir."

Dumbledore shuffled down the nearer of the twin staircases, a stooped, kindly figure in a cap and crimson robes. His bright blue eyes peered over the top of his spectacles. "No matter whether you did or did not. I didn't ask you here to scold you. Sit down, please."

"You didn't?" said Harry, the tension in his shoulders easing. Dumbledore sank into the chair opposite him, hands folded on his desk. "But I thought…"

"Severus Snape is a good man at heart," said the headmaster. "But every person has his faults, and unfortunately his lie in past hurts and enduring grudges. Lemon drop?" Harry shook his head. "No, I've listened to many accounts of the Potions incident. I'm quite certain of your innocence in the whole affair."

"Thank you, sir."

"Another matter has come to my attention, however," Dumbledore continued, with a knowing glance that made him look oddly like his bird. Harry fidgeted. The chair was high, and his feet hung several unsteady inches above the floor. "Every one of your teachers – besides Severus, that is – has given me a stellar account of your behavior in class. Your essays are excellent and display a clear understanding of the material. The only place where you fall short is practical application."

"It isn't for lack of trying," said Harry, trying to hide his frustration.

"If you were any other student, I would refer you to your Head of House, but I think that would hardly be helpful in this case. A friend of yours offered to tutor you instead."

"Do you mean Rosier? He _has_ been after me."

"It was Miss Lestrange," said Dumbledore. The lamp flickered, and the little glass half-moons of his spectacles glinted. Or did his eyes? Harry couldn't tell. "I promised her I would speak to you about it myself and thanked her on your behalf. The situation would be temporary. I trust it doesn't bother you?"

"She never mentioned anything like that to _me_ ," said Harry, mildly disturbed. On the subject, yes, she had waxed long, but she had never suggested tutoring as a solution.

"She seemed to think she had."

Maybe that was Margaret's way of beating around the bush. If so, she had done so well that her true intentions had never occurred to him. He was not exactly displeased, but he couldn't bring himself to feel too excited about it. She was the impatient, my-goodness-how-could-you-not-know- _that_ sort of person. Not teacher material, in other words.

Aloud, he said, "I'd like to give it a few more tries myself before I resort to a tutor."

"I thought as much." Dumbledore pushed his spectacles up his nose and bent over a long parchment. His quill was the dappled brown of a pheasant's wing, and it bobbed as he wrote. "Good day."

"Is that all?" said Harry, after a startled silence. He had thought so hard about this meeting on the way over and planned his words so carefully that now he had no idea what to do. It was as though he was a man who had believed he was about to be executed, only to discover he had never even been accused.

Dumbledore looked up, a shadow of a smile playing about his mouth. "That is all, indeed."

In ten steps, Harry was in the doorway. But before he stepped onto the staircase, he turned. "May I ask you a question, sir?"

"You may."

"The Rosiers and Lestranges haven't been on good terms," said Harry. He rubbed his palm against the rough folds of his robe, suddenly uncertain. Dumbledore was the headmaster, though, and on the right side, the Rosiers' side and secretly Harry's. He pushed forward. "I spoke to my roommate about it. He told me you wanted help after what happened to Longbottom."

"And so I did," Dumbledore said, putting aside his quill. He leaned back and stared at Harry over steepled fingers. "What would you like to know?"

"It's this," said Harry, and he paused. He ran a hand over his mouth. It came away a bit wet, so he wiped it on his robes. "I know he was murdered. I don't know who these Muggles are, nor what they do, but are you sure they can protect us? What if whatever killed Longbottom can't be stopped? Mustn't it be awfully powerful to get inside Hogwarts without anyone finding out?"

He longed to break his silence and blurt out every bit of information he knew about demons and possession and how Neville had been mixed up with both. But he held his tongue. He had no proof of their existence. Chances were, the headmaster would think it was a bunch of rubbish and not worth considering. But on the other hand, there _was_ a book about it in the library, and Dumbledore was the eccentric type. He had to know already… didn't he?

"My dear Mr. Potter, that is not for you to worry about," said Dumbledore, before he could decide what to do. He did not look like the formidable wizard Harry knew him to be, but rather like a gentle old man. "Concern yourself with your studies and your friends. The matter has been settled. I assure you that all will be well."

Sensing that he had been dismissed, Harry nodded and ducked into the stairwell. The gargoyle shifted back into place once he had stepped out, and he was left standing in an empty hall, wondering whether the past half-hour had been merely a dream.

 _I assure you that all will be well_ , Dumbledore had said. All would be well. Then why did he have a nagging feeling that it wouldn't?

* * *

The common room was empty when Harry returned. He had wandered through Hogwarts for at least three-quarters of an hour, restless and lost in thought – also just plain lost, but the former sounded better. Dinner was long past, and so were the nightly chess matches that followed, but the fireplace still blazed away. The last shreds of golden sunlight filtered through the windows. He sank into an armchair and tucked his knees to his chin.

Unfortunately, fate had him marked as one who liked to be disturbed. Not five minutes later, he heard a smattering of footsteps approach the entrance, a tap on the wall, and muffled words.

"… being ridiculous," said Margaret's voice. She was using her irritated, no-nonsense tone, and Harry winced for her companion. He was thankful for his chair's high back.

"I thought we were past this." Of course it was Rosier. He should have known. For once, Rosier didn't sound a bit happier than Margaret. The wall slipped shut behind them with a dull thud.

"Past what?"

"Now _you_ 're being ridiculous," Rosier snapped. Harry made himself as small as he could and wished very hard that they would move on or go back out.

The quick slip-slap of Margaret's shoes halted. When she spoke again, her voice was icy. "Maybe you expect me to always know what goes on in that thick head of yours, but let me tell you something. I'm human. I _don't_."

"How long have we known each other? Thirteen years? Fourteen?"

"It can't have been more than that," said Margaret dryly. Rosier snorted, unamused. "What are you trying to get at, or do you simply like to state facts?"

"I used to think it was normal," said Rosier. They stood so close now that, though he spoke in barely more than a whisper, Harry could make out every word. "Hate you one day, everything's fine the next. My parents said it was, and so did yours. And then things changed. I thought you of all people would have, too. But no," his voice rose to a sneering falsetto, " _Father_ tells me something so it _has_ to be true. What are you, spineless?"

With that, he damned himself. Except for a sharp intake of breath, Margaret was silent. There wasn't a speck of emotion in her voice when she did answer.

"Get out," she said quietly. "Now. I don't care where you go. I don't want to look at you."

"Good. You won't have to," said Rosier, with the same terrible calm. He left. Margaret stood motionless for what felt like a long while, and then she drew a deep, shuddering breath and circled around to the couches. Her eyes fell on Harry, and she turned white.

"I was here when you came in," said Harry. He fiddled with a loose thread on his chair, not quite able to meet her eyes. He had never felt so uncomfortable. "I couldn't help hearing. Are you angry?"

She seemed to struggle with herself. "Not at you," she said finally.

"I'm glad."

"I wish you hadn't been here, though."

"So do I."

That got a smile out of her – granted, it was a thin and mirthless smile, but a smile nonetheless. Color slowly trickled back into her face. She still looked pale, though, and tired. Her foot tapped an agitated rhythm against the floor.

"I spoke to the headmaster," said Harry. He did not want to wait until the silence became more awkward. "He said things had settled. I thought everything would be all right between, well, everybody now."

Margaret made a noise that he took to mean "me, too." Harry twisted his hands in his lap. The problem was that his friends had such opposing temperaments that they clashed constantly, and he had to act as mediator every time. It wasn't just Rosier and Margaret. He could have dealt with that, but Ron and Hermione had their fair share of disputes as well.

"Oh, dear," he said.

Margaret quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Nothing. By the way, Dumbledore mentioned you offered to tutor me. I appreciate it…"

"I thought I'd better put my brain to good use," Margaret said, with a real smile this time. "You are terrible at spell work, you know. I'm trying to be what Gryffindors would call 'a good friend'."

"But I can't accept," Harry told her. There was a strange feeling in his chest as he spoke, especially when her smile went stiff at the edges. "I can't. You have to understand."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want you as a tutor." He winced. "Crumbs, that sounded much better in my head. I meant to say that..."

"No, actually I understand perfectly," said Margaret coolly. She did not look at him. "You're on _his_ side, aren't you? He's rather lucky that way. Everyone likes to be on _his_ side."

"That isn't true," Harry protested. "You're taking it all wrong. I just feel like this is something I have to do on my own. Maybe it's pride. I want to prove myself."

"All right."

"I don't want to take sides, I swear."

"Fine. Please go." She sounded as close to tears as she ever got.

"Margaret…"

" _Please_."

His chest tightened. He couldn't see what else he could do, though, and Margaret looked stiff and distant, sitting ramrod straight with her back barely brushing the cushions. The fire was dead except for one fragment of wood that gleamed red in the soot. Harry poked it busily and fought back the lump in his throat.

His chest tightened even more. Without warning, his legs buckled. His knees hit the floor with thwack, sending a rippling sting up his spine, and white-hot light sliced through his head. He clutched it. He was screaming. No, it wasn't him. No, it was. His thoughts were too jumbled to make sense.

"Harry!" someone was yelling, close to his ear, but he couldn't see them. It was too bright. Everything was too bright. He couldn't see anything. He reached out blindly and took ahold of something or someone.

 _Help me_. He must have said it out loud because the person started talking again. Soon more voices joined in. They all spoke very loudly, and Harry curled himself up in a little ball to hide from them. It was all too loud, too bright. Another voice chimed in, this time coming from inside him. He recoiled. It was evil, disgustingly twisted. It was in his mind, hanging to it like a leech.

 _Get out._ The words cycled through his head. _Get out, get out, get out_. He would scratch it out himself if it didn't listen.

"My God, Harry, stop! You're hurting yourself!"

Someone grabbed his hands and tore them from his face. The thing inside him was screeching in wordless anger, but soon the screeches grew quieter, and finally they disappeared altogether. The light stayed inside him, gleaming warm and bright in his chest. Harry found he could bear it. He opened his eyes.

The world that met them almost had him convinced that he had died and gone to heaven. There were rough outlines of people, like fading sketches drawn in pencil and lightly dusted with color. Each one held a shining white star at its core. The one nearest him pulsed fiercely when the person realized he was conscious.

"You _brat_!" This was followed by a shake. It was a rough shake, and it jostled every one of Harry's bones. He grunted in protest. The sketched outline solidified, although its star shone just as brightly, and he saw it was a girl. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were blue, and an angry flush was creeping into her cheeks. "You little _pig_! How dare you?!"

"Oh, it's you, Margaret." The stars were distracting. It was difficult to tell that she was herself, even with the human outline to guide him. "What's happening? I can't see properly."

Someone else pushed forward. The outline was tall and thin, and it too held a star. Equal parts bewildered and mesmerized, Harry lifted an arm to shield himself. It was more reflexive than necessary; the light did no harm to his eyes.

"Harry? Thank God you're all right. I heard the most frightful screaming. You _are_ all right, aren't you?"

"I think so," said Harry, although he wasn't sure at all. He sat up and squinted. "Are you Rosier?"

"Of course I am!"

"You're frightened," Harry realized. He looked at Margaret. "So are you. You both are. Why are you frightened? I don't understand. What's happening? You're all so… so _bright_. Like Christmas lights. No, brighter."

Margaret and Rosier exchanged glances. "He's gone mad," Rosier said, as though he was joking, but his expression spoke differently. "We need Pomfrey. Harry, look at me. Focus."

"Has he really snapped?" asked someone else.

"It seems so."

"I'm not crazy," said Harry, struggling to his feet. "I'm not even hurt. See, I'm standing."

They were so transparent, so easy to read. Most of them were vaguely interested and little concerned, and some were wary of him. The one with an outline of slick blond hair around his head was irritated. Everyone believed he had gone wrong in the head. But when humans wanted to hide something very badly, they lied. Harry could lie.

"I was only joking." He shrugged. "I must have hit my head when I went down, and I saw stars. I'm sorry to disappoint you. You can go back to bed if you'd like."

The stars retreated, murmuring and trickling in two staggered lines to the dormitories. A few hopefuls stayed behind, but when nothing further happened, they left as well. Rosier's dramatic exit of before had been ruined. He muttered goodnight in Harry's general direction and returned to his boudoir.

"You were only joking, were you?" said Margaret, once they were alone. She knew he hadn't been. Harry kept his face neutral. Margaret sighed. "Oh, all right. If you're going to be like _that_. I'll let it go this time."

"There won't be another time."

"We'll see."

"I'm sorry for scaring you."

She scoffed. "Me, scared? You must be talking to the wrong person."

Margaret could lie, too.

* * *

That night Harry didn't sleep at all. When he closed his eyes, he saw the stars in his head and through his eyelids. Every noise and movement Rosier made in his sleep sounded ten thousand times louder than usual. Fortunately, Harry was too distracted to be tired, but it spelled evil for his schoolwork and attendance if the situation continued.

The next morning, the stars were as bright as they had been the night before. They swarmed through the halls on the way to breakfast and lined the tables left and right. The professors held stars just as the students did, although theirs were no larger nor brighter. The sight was overwhelming. It was all he could do to remember a token bite of toast to throw off Margaret's suspicions.

Perhaps five minutes after everyone had begun to eat, the doors opened again, and his efforts were ruined. The thing that came in was huge. It towered to the ceiling, and at the same time it was crammed into a tiny human form. If it hadn't been constrained to the hall, it might have expanded to the size of Europe, or even of the Earth. And it had _wings_.

"What are you looking at?"

Harry whipped his head around. Rosier was watching him with an odd expression.

"Nothing," he said quickly. He bent his head over his toast, but he couldn't help looking again. Rosier noticed and followed his line of sight. He grinned.

"Oh, Lovegood."

"Do you see it, too?" said Harry, giving up all pretense at eating.

"Yes, I believe I do, now."

"It's glowing, all golden. It's beautiful."

Rosier raised an eyebrow and put down his fork. "You are _far_ gone."

"And the wings," Harry continued, without fully registering what he was saying. "They're as tall as a ten-story building, or taller. You can see the battle feathers folded up near the base, but the flying feathers are out. They're sort of flat, though, so I don't think it's using them much."

He spared a moment to glance at Rosier, who was staring at him with an even odder expression.

"Are we talking about the same thing?"

Harry frowned. "I don't know. Are we? What were you saying?"

"I thought this was about Luna Lovegood, but I'm beginning to think you're having a really strange hallucination."

The creature kept drawing his eyes and his attention. It had shifted across the room and now stood somewhere near the center. Interestingly enough, the stars shone no less brightly than they had before it had come in. It was as though the stars and the thing, for lack of a better name, were apart from each another, existing in separate planes – one three-dimensional, the other four or more.

"Who is Luna Lovegood?" said Harry, remembering that Rosier had mentioned someone of that name a little while ago.

"The Ravenclaw who just walked in. You were gawking at her."

"I was? Who?"

Rosier shook his head. "Very well, speak in circles to your heart's delight."

"Anyway, you're wrong," said Harry, staring harder at it. It was sitting at the Ravenclaw table, or rather enveloping that quarter of the room. "It isn't called Luna. Its name is Niphredil, I believe. Yes, it looks like Niphredil."

"You've completely lost me. What's a niphredil, and why is Lovegood one of them?"

Harry came back to himself. "I don't know. I've been spewing out a bunch of nonsense, haven't I?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I had trouble sleeping last night," Harry said. He took several rashers of bacon although he wasn't hungry.

Niphredil. The name was familiar to him, and so were the wings… and the glow that was grace. This he knew with certainty, but he didn't know how he knew it. Harry snuck another look. Golden light formed a halo around the blueish-white grace, like the flame of a candle.

He had the strangest sense of déjà vu. It was as though all his past life had been nothing but a dream, and he had only just awoken. But awoken to what?

Niphredil suddenly turned, and Luna Lovegood's eyes bore into him. Harry stared back, more curious than frightened. In a flash, the wings drew back. The battle feathers were out, quivering with tension. He stiffened and automatically reached to his side for a weapon.

The wings flapped once, and Niphredil was gone.

* * *

 **Gratuitous LOTR reference in there (Disclaimer: It belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien, not me). Congrats to those who spot it, even if it's in plain sight. For those who are really stumped, I'll give you the answer next chapter in the A/N.**

 **Hope you liked the chapter, I like reviews. Same old, same old. Have a great rest of your day.**


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